Farewells

In Memoriam 

When Dad died, I don’t think I truly realized how long “forever” is. Last week, in an email to a childhood friend, I wrote that almost 20 years later I find myself getting a bit angry that he’s still dead. I wasn’t being glib. There’s actually a sliver of me that doesn’t quite get how his death can be so permanent. I want to look into his big ole cow-eyes and admonish him: “Okay, Dad, you’ve made your point. Now come back.”

Three days ago his best friend—and Small’s last remaining old buddy—died at the astonishing age of 103. He and his wife (who died almost two years ago and whom we all also loved) and their kids were woven happily through my life for as long as I can remember, almost like family. He gave me my first Swiss Army knife when I was eight (to this day I carry one with me whenever I leave the house; I don’t know how many I’ve had confiscated at airports). He taught us about planets by arranging us little kids around the room—Saturn here, Jupiter over there—and showing us how to orbit around each other. He even let me steer his beloved skipjack. 

When I first found out about his death, my main thought was practical: “It was time.” He’d been fading for quite a while, and of course there’s no recovering from old age. But yesterday when I looked at his photo, the reality of his permanent departure hit me, and I was swamped by a wave of grief. I can only imagine how broken-hearted his children and my mother are.

The world has lost a treasure. When trying to describe him, my brain becomes an ocean of adjectives. I’ll limit myself to eight: brilliant, imaginative, quirky, curious, kind, competent, generous, witty. He loved painting, making eccentric mechanical inventions, playing in nature, tinkering with machinery, riding motorcycles (often with his wife), and more. Little wonder that he and dad were so close for over fifty years. Both true originals.

One of Dad’s creations:

One of his buddy’s creations:

And what adventures they had. There was the several-day canoe trip down the Suwannee River through the Okefenokee Swamp that nearly ended in disaster. Our families sailed to the 1964 New York World’s Fair together, camped by the Brandywine River, flew to Maine to see a total solar eclipse, explored Gettysburg, and countless other experiences that enriched my early years. Later, when all of us kids were grown and gone, the four “grown-ups” traveled to England and took a marathon road trip across the country. The entire time, even in those close quarters, they got along beautifully.

Thank you for everything, Uncle B. We will miss you. I hope you held the same belief that Small does: that you’ll get to see Aunt L. now. A comforting thought that I wish I believed.

Life with Ember

At bedtime the other night, Ember had the sudden urgent need to measure things: the ceiling height of various rooms, for example, and the distance from stove to back bedroom. I asked her several times to put away the ruler and come to bed. No luck. Finally I reached toward the yardstick and asked, “Please give me back my ruler now.”

“No!” she objected, pulling it away from me. “It’s a  yardstick.”

I replied as I often do: “Ember, please don’t split hairs. You know what I mean.” But she can’t help herself. Perhaps she has a future in the legal profession?

When she finds something that interests her, she often goes hog-wild. Her latest discovery: origami cranes.

I love her so. Thank you, Eleni and Jason, for the loan.

At the Wheel

Man, is this wheel-thrown pottery stuff difficult. After three classes, I’m more lost than before I started. While my peers have progressed to putting on “feet,” I’m struggling to understand how to shape a squat blob into a taller blob without the top spinning off. I have no idea what to do, but since I can’t just sit there looking confused as I wait for enlightenment, I slam on a hunk of clay and get to work. The uncentered blob jerks my arms around as it twirls, making my upper body feel like I’m trying to take a large and unruly dog for a walk. As the wobbling increases, I panic and forget what I’ve been taught, and have to improvise. I pick up a tool. I put it down somewhere. I turn on the wheel. What’s that horrific grinding noise? And what just rocketed into the air?

These are things I’ve learned so far:

• Rule 1: Don’t put your tools where there are moving parts—especially not that sharp, metal pokey tool—because they will become projectiles.
• Rule 2: Don’t invent original new uses for tools as your object rotates.
• Rule 3: Do not poke at your just-off-the-wheel clay creation. No, not even lightly.
• Rule 4: Don’t slide the wire clay cutter under your object so hard it slices into your thumb and forefinger and gets blood all over the beige clay and the wheel.
• Rule 5: Finally, do not rub your itchy eye with your clay-gritted knuckle.

The worst part of the class is putting my lumpen disasters into the damp room at the end of the session. There, countless newly thrown, masterful creations nestle tightly onto shelves to dry ever so slowly. My objective is to reach in among them to find a place for my earthen embarrassments.

Really, I do get nervous in there. See Rule 3. Remember what I’ve told you about my utter lack of grace and my resultant tendency to leave a path of chaos and destruction in my wake? And the more careful I am, the clumsier I become. Like that time I was trying to help Dad haul groceries upstairs and accidentally knocked over his treasured plaster sculpture of an elegant seated woman, shattering her face off. It had been his grandmother’s. Here’s how he fixed it, once he was over the shock:

Sleeplessness

My doctor asked me to do a home sleep-test last week, to try to figure out why I can’t get enough rest. When I went to Kaiser pick up the equipment (a $4000 charge if I didn’t bring it back the next morning) the clinician explained how to work it and told me there’d be one of three outcomes: if the test were fine, I’d get an email from my doctor; if it were slightly abnormal but not bad enough for a dreaded CPAP, I’d get a letter in the mail. If my nocturnal breathing was a significant problem, I’d get a phone call.

The way things have been going, I hardly have to tell you which one it was. This thing that Eleni sent me provides a clue.

Real Estate

Over the past years as I’ve watched my limited savings dwindle, more and more I’ve come to suspect I can’t afford to stay in this house and town that I adore, and where I’ve lived for two-and-a-half decades. I’ve been in denial, but finally asked a numbers-competent friend to look at my finances last week. The verdict: I likely have only another year or two here. As that eventuality started to sink in, I walked around my house in tears, stroking walls and hugging doorjambs. I love this place, but I don’t think staying is sustainable. We’ll see.

Last weekend, just for fun, I went to look at a Victorian house overlooking the Carquinez Strait out in Crockett. It was really unique but completely trashed (thus its relatively low price). Ember, Lulu and Joshua kept me company.

Nope, too messed up. But what a view!

Then Lulu sent me this affordable suggestion. Such potential.

My current task is to go through file after file to try to figure out how much money I’ve sunk into my house. I regret that back when I bought it, I wasn’t as organized as I am now (yes, I have finally become my mother), so I never kept a log of all that. Piecing it together from scraps of paper ain’t fun.

Out of time again. I just don’t have enough of that.